


Wisdom

by willow_41z



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willow_41z/pseuds/willow_41z
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past history of several characters on "Sherlock."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to emerald_happy, my Britpicker and beta, and also to lastwordy-mcgee.
> 
> More tags and categorizations will be added as they become non-spoilery.

For years afterwards, cold, clear days in January-- and the smell of Marmite-- evoked a particularly complex set of feelings and memories. It was just as well that in London, cold, clear days in January were rare.

The day it began was exactly that kind of day; she was twenty-five, interviewing for a minor civil service job. It wasn't what she wanted-- she'd hoped to move up after her last job, given that she had a master's degree in political science, top marks at uni, and two and a half years of work in the nonprofit sector-- but it was a start, something to pay the bills. The past four months certainly hadn't offered anything better. Nevertheless, something about the quality of the rare sunshine, as she walked from the Tube to the office building, made her a little hopeful.

Somehow the interviewer was already running late by the time she got there at half eight. She was prepared for that. She'd packed her handbag with a couple of interesting papers on trade deficits, a paperback novel, and a jar of Marmite. At least the reception room chairs were more comfortable than most; in fact, the whole room was well-appointed. To her right, the secretary's desk guarded access to the offices beyond; to the right of the desk was a wall with a window. Across from her was a counter with a kettle, some paper cups, and little plastic baskets that held tea bags, jars of instant coffee, and packets of sugar and creamer. She wondered about the packets of creamer instead of a carton; maybe this department dealt with Americans? Her research had indicated a domestic focus, though.

At the sound of hurried footsteps, she looked away from the tea counter to see a man rush in, go straight to the secretary's desk, and lean over it for an extended whispered conversation. Then he slouched in a chair across from her, looking anxious. She watched him surreptitiously. He was in his mid-thirties, perhaps, though his jet-black hair was already receding; he was wearing thin glasses, and was formally but carelessly dressed, his expensive-looking suit wrinkled. His face was flushed, and he was examining his fingernails, glancing every few moments from the door to the secretary. Another applicant? Late, and had missed his time slot? But it didn't matter, as the man they were both there to see had been tied up all morning. She found herself resenting the possibility that he was her competitor, with his sloppy appearance and possessive way of lounging in the chair; she reflexively smoothed her pressed skirt. The man started a bit, putting a hand inside his own jacket as he glanced at the door again.

“Er, Ms... Ms Wilson,” he said, glancing at the name plate on the secretary's desk. "Have you told him I'm here?” he asked.

The secretary's smile was strained. “As I said, I will let him know the moment he's back from his meeting.”

“Right.” The man hesitated, then took out a mobile phone and texted someone, typing furiously; a moment later, his phone buzzed in response. “Look,” he began, facing the secretary, “it really is quite urgent...”

“Sir, I'm sorry, you're just going to have to wait--”

Suddenly there was commotion downstairs: footsteps, shouting, and then the sound of breaking glass. _Who would rob a government office?_ she thought.

“Dear god, do you think it could be terrorists?” The other woman-- Ms Wilson-- was ashen-faced.

She had no idea. “Does this door lock?” At the secretary's nod, she started to slam the door; then she thought better of it, closed it quietly, and locked it, including the deadbolt. Then she wedged a chair under the knob. “Help me stack some of these--” she started to say to the man.

But the anxious man wasn't in the chair any more. Instead, he was trying to open the window while simultaneously texting. He didn't appear to be having much luck with either. “Oh bloody _hell_ ,” he said, before dashing around the secretary's desk and bolting into a nearby office, slamming the door behind him.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. “Open up!” someone shouted right outside, and then there was the sound of something heavy hitting the door; the wood splintered. She grabbed her handbag and made a run for the back offices, but she'd barely gotten halfway there when the door crashed down and two men with large rifles entered the room. _Oh God, this can't be real._

“Don't move!” The taller of the two men pointed his gun directly at her. “Hands up!” She did; her handbag fell down her arm to thump against her ribs. He gestured with his rifle towards the tea cart. “Move over there and put that bag on the ground.”

Again, she did as she was told, feeling like she was stuck in a horrible nightmare. That they both had lit cigarettes dangling from their mouths only added to the absurdity. Her heart was racing, and adrenaline was making her stomach churn. She didn't seem to be able to think as clearly as she was used to.

The second man moved towards the office and spotted the secretary under the desk. “You! Out from under there, hands up! No noise! Get over there with the other!”

The terrified secretary obeyed, coming to stand next to her. Seconds later, the shorter man aimed at one of the office doors and triggered a hail of bullets; the sound was nearly deafening, and left her ears ringing, but the taller man was still covering them with his rifle, so she didn't dare cover her ears. The shorter man kicked down the door he'd shot at, and vanished into the office. _The police, the police must be coming_ , she thought. _They broke in downstairs... someone will have heard the shots..._ She was beginning to sweat. Beside her, the secretary moaned.

“Shut up,” the taller man said, and she realized he had no accent-- a domestic terrorist?

The other man shot down the second door and started swearing. “Rope out the window!” No accent for either of them.

“Get the last room!” their captor called back.

The other man started firing at the third door, and then stopped. “Come out and I'll let you live!” he shouted.

Live. What an idea. But there was only silence. _I don't want to die in this office. I don't want..._

“Going to faint,” she said clearly, and stumbled back towards the counter in a swoon. The man's gun followed her, but his finger did not tighten on the trigger. “Oh...” She slumped backwards, left hand flailing for purchase as her right hand raked through the condiment baskets, sitting down hard.

“Touch your bag and I shoot!” the man snapped. Obediently, she rested her hands on her knees, still swooning.

The shorter man jerked back immediately, bleeding from the arm. A second bullet narrowly missed his head. “Damn it!” he cursed, wrapping his hand awkwardly around the stock so he could still reach the trigger.

“Get over here,” the taller man snapped, starting for the offices, his rifle still trained on her and the secretary. The two terrorists switched places, but there was never an opportunity to run, and the shorter terrorist, though clearly in pain, could still hold his gun.

The taller man fired a shot into the ceiling. “Throw out your gun or I shoot the women!”

“Go ahead,” came the voice of the anxious man, “you still won't get me out.”

 _Bastard_ , she thought. The anger seemed to clear her mind.

“You-- get her up,” the shorter man barked to the secretary.

She stayed limp as the secretary tried to lift her. “Please get up, please,” the secretary said, voice shaky, and she half-stumbled, half-climbed to her feet, shifting her body so her hands were out of sight of the man with the gun as she fidgeted with her sleeves.

“Last chance!” the shorter man yelled into the office. Blood was streaming down his right arm, and he had shifted his rifle to the left, cradling it awkwardly.

The second the barrel was pointed away from her, she took her chance, throwing the three half-opened creamer packets hidden in her sleeves into his face. The white dust lit into a fireball; the man screamed, hands going to his face, and dropped his rifle. The secretary grabbed it and swung it like a bat into his injured arm-- he screamed and fell to the ground-- the other man spun, but two shots from the office caught him in the leg before he could shoot-- she and the secretary both dove for the floor, and she fumbled for any sort of weapon as she scrambled to get out of the line of fire-- her hand seized on something round and hard, and without thinking she threw it hard at the man's head--

There was a meaty _thunk_ , the sound of shattering glass, and more gunfire-- she braced herself for pain, but a moment later when she realized she hadn't been shot, she opened her eyes again. The anxious man was behind the desk holding the other rifle, which he pointed at the shorter man. The secretary was in the corner of the room, slumped over, but she wasn't bleeding; fainted, then. “You, from the waiting room,” the anxious man said. “Come here.”

She stepped around the desk, trying not to look at sprawled body of the taller man or the blood quickly saturating the carpet. The Marmite jar was broken nearby. She concentrated on her breathing so she wouldn’t vomit. 

“In there,” the man said. “I left my phone by the window. Go get it.”

She retrieved the phone, nearly throwing up as she had to step around the dead man, and put it on the desk. “The last number I texted,” the man said. “Send this message: 'Attackers neutralized, need security, where are you.'” 

She typed. "I sent it.”  


“Good. Um.” For the first time, his expression relaxed. “I don't suppose you know how to use a pistol?” His was in front of him on the desk.

“No.”

“Right. Pick it up.” He moved carefully to the left, out from behind the desk, gun still trained on the moaning man across the room. “Point it at him. Put your finger on the trigger. If he moves, pull the trigger until it shoots. If he keeps moving, do it again.”

“All right.” She tried to hold the gun like people on telly did, with one hand on the top and the other supporting it on the bottom. Her hands were remarkably steady.

“What did you do to him?” the man asked.

“Threw powdered creamer at his cigarette.”

More noise downstairs; she tensed, backing toward the offices, calculating how quickly she could get down the rope dangling out that other window if more attackers came-- but she couldn't leave the secretary unconscious like that-- she smelled something foul, both coppery and yeasty, and realized it was the smell of blood mixed with Marmite. She swallowed hard, tightened her grip on the gun, and forced herself to stay standing up instead of doubling over and vomiting.

“You can put the gun down,” the man with the rifle said, and as she did so, the room was suddenly full of large men in black uniforms. Some surrounded the man on the floor as others disappeared into the offices. She heard someone examining the body behind her, and tried not to think about it.

One man knelt by the secretary, checked her pulse, and lifted a radio to his mouth. “One unconscious, one with burns.”

The man next to her put down his stolen rifle, and looked her over. “Are you hurt?”

“N... no.” It took her two tries to say the word.

“You did well, you know,” he said, “really well. You saved your life and the secretary's. What's your name?”

“Sophia.” She swallowed. “Is there a loo? I'm going to be sick.”

She had to go with an armed escort, but she felt too sick to protest. The guard propped the door open, and stood impassively outside as she knelt in front of the toilet, dry heaving. Finally she realized she wasn't going to throw up after all, at least not then. She splashed cold water on her face and washed her hands, then looked at the guard uncertainly. “I'm done.”

He shepherded her back down the hall, and showed her into another room, this one blessedly free of dead bodies. Another armed guard came to stand beside the door; when she asked him what was happening, he only told her to wait. She passed the time leafing through the magazines on the table, and looking up whenever she thought someone was coming. No one did. Finally, after nearly an hour had passed according to the clock on the wall, she asked the man, “Do you think I could have my handbag, at least?”

“Evidence,” he replied.

“I only came here for a job interview, this morning, I'd really--” Her voice broke a little. She swallowed. “-- really like to go home.”

“They'll need to take a statement from you.” But he touched his earpiece and said something unintelligible. “Someone will be here soon,” he said.

With that reassurance, she returned to her seat, and began perusing the brainless fashion magazines she'd skipped over the first time. They couldn't hold her attention, and she went to the window to look out. It was still sunny. Three stories below, people were hurrying about their business on foot and in buses and taxis, each wrapped up in their own doings, each of them construing themselves the center of their own universes, forming a never-ending stream, each gone minutes after they entered her field of view. It was much more fascinating than the article about winter's most fashionable gloves.

Behind her, a man cleared his throat. “Miss Sorin?”

She turned quickly. “Yes?” It was someone new, and he was holding a steaming paper cup in one hand and a plate with a sandwich in the other.

He gestured to the seats. “We'd like to talk with you about the events of this morning, if you don't mind.”

As if she had a choice in the matter. None of the people she'd seen bustling around had been uniformed police officers, and the uniforms and weapons practically screamed MI-5. Obediently, she seated herself; he put the tea and sandwich down in front of her. “Oh. Thank you.”

“I'm sorry for the delay,” he said, taking a seat himself and removing a laptop from the bag by his feet. “I'm sure you can imagine the aftermath of something like this. Now. Please tell me why you were here this morning.”

“I was interviewing for a job.”

“And what happened?”

She sipped her tea, and told him about waiting for the interview, about the entrance of the anxious man, and about barricading the door. “Why did you do that?” he asked.

“Well, I thought it was a robbery, I thought it would slow them down.”

“Mmm. Go on.”

When she got to the part about the creamer, he... almost smiled. “Tell me, how did you feel at that point?”

She blinked. “Sorry, how did I _feel?_ ”

“Yes.”

“I was terrified. And angry.”

“And how did you come to think of that particular trick?”

“My Year 10 chemistry teacher showed us.”

“You must have been rather desperate, to try something like that.”

“Yes.” Obviously. Why was he asking so many obvious questions? She eyed the sandwich, and wondered if she could keep it down.

“Did you think it would work?”

“I...” she swallowed. “Hoped. I didn't know. But they were going to kill us anyway. I knew I wouldn't get another chance.”

“Quite.” He typed something. “Do go on.”

She fought to keep her voice steady when she described the second man's dead body. “And then the man told me to pick up the gun and point it at the other terrorist, and then all the uniformed men came,” she finished.

He finished typing, closed the laptop, and folded his hands, studying her. She had the unpleasant feeling of being transparent. “My name is Thompson,” he said finally. “Thank you, you've been most helpful. You're free to go now, but we may pull you in later to talk to you further.” He slid a business card across the table with a name and phone number written on the back. “This is my business card. You may contact me if you have any concerns about what has happened. I imagine other authorities will be in touch. On the back is the name of a therapist you may see if you experience any unpleasant aftereffects from the events of today. Do not go to anyone else. The payment has been arranged. You have an appointment for next Tuesday, if you wish to keep it.”

“Er-- sorry, what's going on?” she asked. “What is all this, what just happened? Who tried to kill me?”

He smiled slightly. “I'm afraid the limits of what I can tell you are very narrow, but you will doubtless have drawn some conclusions on your own. The two men who attacked the office this morning were attempting to retrieve sensitive government information. While they would have been unsuccessful, your quick thinking saved yourself and Ms. Wilson. The secretary,” he added.

“That man, in the waiting room. He would have let us die?”

Mr Thompson hesitated. “The situation was not particularly in his control,” he said, which was a non-answer if she'd ever heard one.

“I... er, yes,” she said. “May I have my handbag back?”

“We're holding it as evidence. It should be returned to you at your flat later this evening. Please accept my apologies in advance for the inconvenience.”

“Evidence? Am I a... suspect?”

“We are of course examining all possibilities.”

“Right,” she said. Then: “What about the job? The interview?”

He almost-smiled. Again. “Someone will be in touch within a week.”

She nodded.

“There will be a cab waiting for you in the front of the building to take you home. There will also be a security detail shadowing you for the next day or two, just as a precaution. You are unlikely to see them.”

There was little she could say to that. “I can take the Tube.”

“The cab is already waiting. The driver will have been paid. I can release these to you now.” He slid her keys across the table. “Good afternoon, Ms Sorin.”

It was definitely a dismissal-- and it reminded her that he'd never asked her name. “Good-bye,” she said, and walked out of the room. No one tried to stop her as she went down the stairs and out the door. Outside were more armed men. “Miss Sorin?” one said, as she was hesitating by the building, looking round nervously.

“Yes.”

He opened the door of the cab. She took a good luck at the car and the driver, not sure exactly what she was frightened of, and then climbed in. The guard paid the driver, and they pulled away from the curb.

She sank back against the seat cushions and closed her eyes. _Oh, God_.

When the cab delivered her to her flat, she bolted the door. Then she made herself a strong cup of tea laced with the bottle of brandy she kept in the back of the cupboard for such occasions. It was bad brandy, cheap stuff left over from her days as a student-- not that her financial situation was much better now-- but she had never minded the quality when she was in dire enough straits to need it. She kicked off her flats and sank onto the sofa, cradling her mug with both hands.

 _That really happened. I was really attacked by terrorists today._ In the quiet of her flat, it almost seemed like a bad dream, or maybe a very convincing hallucination, but she couldn't forget the blood spilling out of the dead man's head, or the utter terror of being convinced she was going to die that day.

After the tea she took a long, hot shower, wrapped herself in her thick dressing gown, and sat down on the sofa to watch mindless telly. But she couldn't focus; instead, she turned it off and stared out the window. When she found herself fixating on the attack, she picked up a book on trade deficits and their role in public policy, and tried to read. When the book couldn't hold her attention, she began to pace her small living room. She made another cup of fortified tea and double-checked the deadbolt. _A deadbolt didn't stop them today. It took bullets._

“Stop,” she told herself firmly, and sat down on the sofa again, massaging her temples with her fingertips. Time to be practical. What did she need to do next? Food-- she needed to eat, though she wasn't hungry. Update her job search list. Ring her old flatmate back and accept the lunch date. Check the news. Get the wash ready for tomorrow.

Someone knocked on the door.

Her heart rate sped up. Quietly, she went to the door, retrieving a large butcher's knife as she passed through the kitchen. That they had limited themselves to knocking was a promising sign. She shifted the knife to her right hand and looked through the peephole. It was a tall man in a suit, holding her handbag.

“Who is it?” she called.

The man held up a warrant card identifying him as a sergeant with Scotland Yard. She swallowed and opened the door. Wordlessly, he handed her her bag.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You're welcome.”

She bolted the door again, put the knife down, and went through her bag. Everything was there-- except, of course, for the Marmite. Her fingers grasped a bit of paper; she pulled it out, and found a packet of non-dairy creamer. It must have fallen into her handbag during the... fight. Her hand closed around it convulsively; she deposited it in the rubbish bin.

 _Enough_ , she told herself firmly. She reheated a leftover curry, did the dishes, and went to bed. As soon as her head touched the pillow, she realized how tired she was, and fell asleep quickly.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophy tries to move past the terrorist attack, and gets a new job... a series of them, in fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to emerald_happy, my Britpicker and beta, and also to lastwordy-mcgee, my beta and skull.

She woke up, disoriented from bad dreams and memories of yesterday's events. In an attempt to shake it all off, she ate and dressed, and sat down with her job search list. With no real expectation of hearing back about yesterday's abortive interview, it was time to send out her CV again.

Her mobile rang. She frowned at the unfamiliar number. “Hello?”

“Sophia Sorin?”

“Yes.”

“This is Ms Walters, with the research and statistics division of the Home Office Science group. We were give your name by the PremCo employment agency, and we've a position that we believe will suit you, working on an immigration project as a data analyst. Can you come round tomorrow at 9?”

Something wasn't making sense. Belatedly, she realized that she'd never contacted an agency called PremCo... in fact, she'd never heard of them.

“This is in regards to the interview you were scheduled to have yesterday,” Ms Walters added.

_The interview crashed by terrorists?_

“Ms Sorin?”

She found her voice. “Er, yes. Nine o'clock. Where?”

When Ms Walters rang off, Sophy sat down and Googled PremCo; the site that came up was unfamiliar. She was now quite sure she'd never sent them a CV, unless they'd changed names recently.  _It's a job_ , she reminded herself, frowning.  _It'll save you from having to get a flatshare_ . And the interview wasn't in the same building as the other one; that was something, at least. 

She arrived ten minutes early the next morning, and was shown into an office right away. The blonde woman behind the desk stood, and offered her hand. “Ms Sorin? I'm Dana Walters.”

“Hello.” Sophy shook her hand firmly.

“Have a seat, please.” Ms Walters seated herself. “I was very impressed with your CV, Ms Sorin. Your recommendations from your last job were glowing, and your master's thesis was unusually insightful.”

“Thank you,” she said.  _Where did she find a copy of my master's thesis?_

“As I mentioned yesterday, we're prepared to offer you a position. Locum work, with the prospect of something more permanent if you and the job suit each other. The position is non-classified, of course-- as I said, analyzing data relevant to immigration policy-- but a certain amount of... discretion... is necessary. Which I believe you possess. Your previous experience with the non-profit sector entitles you to Grade 3 pay.” She folded her hands, and named a figure.

Sophy was careful to keep her face expressionless. “When would I start?” she asked.

“As soon as you like.”

“I'd like to see the department.”

“Of course.” Ms Walters gave her a quick but thorough tour of a set of offices and cubicles. Sophy studied her potential co-workers carefully: they seemed open, answering readily the few, tactful questions she posed, and often volunteering more information that she requested. When Ms Walters left her alone with someone, she took advantage. “Are you pleased here, then?”

“Yes,” the other woman-- Eve-- said. “The hours can be long when there's a deadline, but it's quite stimulating. Pays well, the people are decent. Of course, you know what the deal is.”

“The deal?”

“Oh, well. Some people stay here, but a lot go to other departments.”

Ms Walters returned before Sophy could pursue the conversation any farther, and they went back to her office. “Do you have any questions?”

Sophy hesitated. “I'm not quite clear on how you got my CV, I don't recall a PremCo agency...?”

“Oh-- they get CVs forwarded from other agencies all the time. Standard practice for them.”

“Er, yes. Well... I'd like to accept the job, then.”

“Excellent. I'll send you round to the HR department to get the paperwork started.”

The paperwork took an hour. Then HR sent her home, telling her to report in the morning. When she returned to her flat, she Googled PremCo again. When she looked more closely at their site, she noticed how unprofessional it actually looked; the pages looked like they'd been cobbled together in a hurry, from a template. Using a dummy address, she tried sending messages to some of the listed emails. The main contact address worked, but all the others returned undeliverable. The information in the headers of the bounced messages didn't offer anything useful to her untrained eye, except tha. none of the messages had gone through any server with PremCo in the name,

_This is really odd_ . The department that had just hired her was definitely legitimate; the Home Office linked to their website, the department was listed as a funding source on peer-reviewed research, and the personal pages of some of the staff members turned up on Google. But PremCo appeared to be a fake.

_Ms Walters said this had to do with the interview from yesterday_ . Yesterday's interview, though, had been in an entirely different part of the government-- formulating economic policy. So what was the connection between the two departments? Was that how Ms Walters had gotten her CV, and if so, why had she lied about it? Sophy did a Google search on “Dana Walters,” but nothing unusual came up besides a listing for a porn star that was definitely not her new boss.

She made herself a cup of tea; as it steeped, she stared out the window, and considered. There wasn't enough information for her to make sense of what was going on, and short of hiring a private detective or breaking into Ms Walters's computer, she was unlikely to learn more.  _Although, speaking of offices_ ... she went back to her computer, loaded the PremCo site, and mapped the address. Google Maps informed her that it was a bakery.

“That was helpful,” she murmured, and drank her tea.

The next morning she was shown to a cubicle with a computer, a CD with a set of files to analyze, and a binder of statistical techniques. She spent the morning entering data into spreadsheets, and then sat back in her chair to think. The work she was doing didn't have much to do with political science. She had the necessary training because of the modules she'd taken in uni, but it would have taken careful perusal of her CV, and possibly a phone call, to determine that. The job she'd actually been interviewing for had been completely different, and more in line with her background, though not her interests. Why would anyone in the econometrics group have passed along her CV to Ms Walters? But if not someone in the econometrics group, then who?

Someone knocked on the wall of her cubicle, interrupting her train of thought. “Hello,” she said, swiveling round to see Eve.

“Want to go down to the canteen? I don't imagine you brought a lunch your first day, and it's decent, not  _too_ overpriced.”

“No, I didn't, thanks.” She logged out for lunch, and followed Eve. The other woman retrieved a canvas bag from a fridge in the lounge, and then led the way to the stairs. As they walked, they made the usual small talk: where each had done her degree, what she'd studied, where she'd previously worked. Sophy tried to work the conversation around to how Eve had gotten hired by the department, but just then they came out of the stairwell into a large, noisy room mostly full with people.

“There're a number of different agencies in this complex, and they all share the same canteen,” Eve explained, seeing her surprise. “I'll grab us a table, shall I? Line's over there.”

The food was surprisingly good for canteen fare; Sophy plopped her tray of lasagne and a salad across from Eve's couscous and chickpeas.

“So, what do you think?” Eve asked. “Of the work, I mean, I know you haven't been here very long.”

“It's interesting. I haven't seen much of it, we'll see what Ms Walters has for me after lunch...”

“Have you done work like this before?”

“A little. You?”

“I used to work for an NGO that deals with immigrants and refugees.”

“Nice.”

“I'm going to get some chocolate from the vending machine, do you want anything?”

“Er, sure.” Sophy dug in her handbag and found 50p. “Thanks.”

“Nice bag.”

“What?”

“Your handbag. It's a nice design.”

“Oh. Thanks.” It was a different one from the one she'd been carrying that day for the interview; she hadn't liked to make the concession to irrationality, especially as this one was slightly less professional, but her mind had absolutely balked at taking that other one anywhere for a long time. Currently, it was at the bottom of her wardrobe, and she was contemplating giving it to a charity shop.

She remembered the card Mr Thompson had given her, currently in her nightstand drawer... with the butcher's knife. She wasn't sure if she was going to keep the appointment; it might be helpful, but she would have preferred to make her own appointment, with a therapist she'd selected. Mr Thompson had warned her not to, though, and she didn't want to find out what happened if she defied the people who came after terrorists. But without knowing how the various departments were shuffling round information about her, she wasn't comfortable going to one of their chosen therapists and giving them even more about her. Keeping a stiff upper lip was probably best--

She stared across the room. There, just going through the door-- she could have sworn that was the man from the office, the one who'd shot the terrorists. She grabbed her bag and half-rose, intending to follow him, but he reached the lift and pressed the button before she'd gotten out of her seat.  _Had_ that been him, or was she going mad?

“Here you are,” Eve said cheerfully. Sophy had a hard time not jumping. “I wasn't sure if you liked toffee or those crunchy bits, so I just got plain.”

“Oh. Thanks, I like plain. So,” she said, peeling open the wrapper. “You said there are a lot of departments in this building?”

“Yeah.” Eve listed all the agencies that shared the complex. All of them sounded commonplace, dealing with tasks like housing supplements for the elderly or cultural preservation for minorities. None of them sounded like anything an armed man being pursued by terrorists would have had any business with, but then, the agency she'd been interviewing with had sounded similarly benign. What  _had_ he been doing there, anyway?

The next day was much the same, except she didn't see the strange man in the canteen. On Saturday she did the wash and paid some bills. It was only half-one when she finished, and she found herself restless, but unwilling to leave the flat. The thought of a quiet afternoon in with a book and a cup of tea was also strangely unappealing. So she gave her flat a thorough cleaning, putting everything back where it belonged. She pretended the butcher's knife belonged in her bedside, and as she cooked supper, found herself wondering where she could get a larger one.

Sunday morning brought shopping and a walk, followed by more fidgety restlessness. An old uni acquaintance texted her asking if she was free for drinks, so she spent two hours in a pub listening to the same old stories. She tried to remember the last time she'd had an actual conversation with someone from uni. They'd all been good friends, once, but with one thing and another-- and there had been many things, in the past three years-- she seemed to have outgrown them. For whatever reason, she'd never connected well with most of her coworkers from previous jobs, and with her family effectively... gone... well, she was back to the company of books again, it seemed. Maybe she would be able to befriend someone in her new office.

Monday morning, Dana asked to see her. Sophy frowned, rechecked the assignment she'd just sent for errors, didn't see any, and went to Dana's office. Her boss was just hanging up the landline. “Have a seat, please,” Dana said. “What are your plans for tomorrow morning?”

Sophy blinked. “My plans?”

“Yes.”

“Come round work as usual. Why, is there something you need me to do?”

“Actually, I just wanted to tell you that it's perfectly fine if you take the morning to go to your appointment.”

Sophy froze. “Sorry, my what?” she asked after a moment, and her voice didn't sound quite right in her own ears.

“Your therapist's appointment?” Sophy must have looked as startled as she felt, because Dana continued, “I have a friend in the department where you were originally interviewing. He told me what happened. I thought, er... it certainly wasn't my intention to offend you--”

“Oh, no,” Sophy said, and forced a smile. “I understand. I, er, honestly hadn't decided yet.”  _Though I think I just did_ .

“Just let me know if you'll be late.”

“Yes, all right.” Sophy went back to her desk, shaken and confused.  _There's no way I'm going to that therapist_ . As she sat down again, she remembered something else.  _That interview-- it wasn't a normal interview. I didn't have to take any tests, or make a presentation, or anything. Dana just asked me if I wanted the job._

She worked through the spreadsheets on autopilot as her mind raced, trying to find an explanation.  _There's something I don't know going on. There are too many coincidences here_ . But what could she do? If there really was someone manipulating her situation, would they still be able to find her, even if she quit her job? She needed the money, and so far nothing really bad had happened...  _Last week I was minding my own business and someone nearly killed me. How much worse could this be?_

That night, another nightmare woke her and left her gasping. Flipping on every light in the flat and brewing a strong cup of tea helped dispel the memory of the giant gun barrel and far too much blood. But she was afraid to turn the lights off again for hours, and slept fitfully when she did sleep. In the morning she was glad to get to the office and be surrounded by all the people.

She made a point of emailing Dana with a question shortly after she got in. Childish, perhaps, but it made her feel better, especially if someone really was playing head games with her. In the canteen, she watched again for the man from the terrorist attack; when she didn't see him, she began to wonder if she'd been mistaken that first day.

Wednesday was wet and slippery, but at least she'd had a full night's sleep the night before. A morning staff meeting ended when the fire alarm forced them to evacuate the building. They huddled under an awning for forty-five minutes before being allowed back inside, and the rest of the morning was lost in chaos when a server went down. Eve worked through lunch trying to fix things, so Sophy went to the canteen alone, taking a book that Dana had recommended as background reading on West African immigrant culture.  _I forgot a fork_ , she realized, and stood up to get one from the condiments counter--

There, halfway across the room. The man from the office was walking quickly towards the doors. She stuffed her containers haphazardly back in her sack and followed him, taking out her mobile and pretending to be absorbed in texting. As soon as she stepped into the foyer with the lifts, he looked up sharply and saw her. He frowned; she saw that he recognized her, and abandoned any idea of getting into the lift with him. Instead she smiled vaguely at him, and made to head for the stairs. When the lift doors closed, she turned back, and watched the numbers on the display. The lift stopped on the sixth floor, and then returned, empty.

That evening she downloaded the complex's fire emergency plans and used them to find all the departments on the sixth floor of that particular building. She went through every department's staff listings, noting down the names of all the men who didn't have pictures displayed. Judicious use of Google and Facebook helped her find pictures for some of them, and her list narrowed until she had six names who could be the man from the reception room. She went to bed satisfied that she was a little closer to understanding what was going on.

When her eyes snapped open in the middle of the night, the nightmare still fresh in her head, the clock read 1:56. Her heart was pounding; she took deep breaths and forced herself to concentrate on the particulars of her surroundings, on everything that differentiated her bedroom from the reception room. That helped... sort of. She moved the butcher's knife from the drawer to under her pillow. Eventually, she fell asleep with her hand on the handle.

The next day three people, including Eve, had called in sick, with colds exacerbated from standing in the cold and the damp. Her own throat felt scratchy, but she drank copious amounts of tea and positioned her chair away from the draft. Her assignments were slowly becoming more collaborative, and the absences slowed her down, but the greater quiet of the floor made up for it. She tried to think of excuses to visit the sixth floor for data for her assignments. The man had recognized her, but if her reason was good enough, he'd have no grounds to be suspicious if he saw her in his department. And if she was correct in thinking that her current job was linked to the terrorist attack, he shouldn't have been surprised to see her in the building-- especially not if he'd had anything to do with getting her that job. She thought she was beginning to understand what had happened, but she had no idea as to why.

Dana called her into her office that afternoon. Sophy had prepared three good reasons why she needed to visit the commission on road repair to get more accurate employment figures, but when she sat down, Dana had an odd expression on her face. She pushed a piece of paper across the desk. “Someone from accounting has asked for a meeting with you.”

Sophy blinked. “From accounting?”

“Yes, the senior admin assistant from that department emailed me this morning.”

She looked over the paper:  _Please ask Ms Sophia Sorin to come to 443 at 8:30 Friday morning for a meeting. Thank you_ . There was an address typed below. “Do you know what this meeting is about?” she asked, glancing up again.

“You now know as much as I do.”

Sophia studied Dana's expression for a moment-- she looked perplexed-- and hazarded another question: “I don't suppose you have any guesses? I haven't had any contact with that department, I don't know...”

“None that would be helpful, sorry,” Dana said. “I'm afraid that secretary tends to be rather close-mouthed, or I'd ask. It can't be anything negative, so don't worry about that. They may want to recruit you-- your work's been rather good, you know.”

“But I'm not an accountant,” Sophia said.

Dana smiled. “I guess tomorrow will tell, won't it? By the way-- I'd get there fifteen minutes early, if I were you. Security can be rather touchy in that building.”

“I'll... keep that in mind. Thank you.” She went back to her desk and tried to work. The accounting group in question dealt with fraud within the government itself. They were located in a different complex altogether, and she couldn't find any link between the department, about which there was very little information available on the Internet, and the sixth floor of her current building.

After work, she made a list of salient facts about the six men who could be the man from the reception room, and found enough biographical details on the Internet to cross off three of them. Then she closed her computer and moved to the sofa to consider whether or not she should go to the meeting tomorrow. If she didn't, she was most likely out of a job, with no reference from Dana. But if she did go... what would happen?  _Isn't that what I want to know?_ she thought.  _How else am I going to find out what's going on?_ And if the people who wanted to meet with her were the same people involved in the terrorist attack, and the ones who'd been involved in getting her CV to Dana, not showing up seemed futile.

She drained her mug, and went to make sure her suit was pressed.

In the morning, she was waiting in the reception room by 8:10. It didn't look anything like the other one, but she kept staring at the door nonetheless, and had to actively repress the impulse to jump at every little sound. She mentally listed the contents of her handbag and the reception room, just in case.

“Ms Sorin?”

She looked up. “Yes?”

“You can go in. Third door on the left.”

“Thank you,” Sophia said, and gave a smile that was entirely false.

The office she entered was large, with a desk at one end and bookshelves at the other. She'd lived in London long enough to know that the empty space in between indicated opulence, not scarcity. Behind the desk was a man; he'd stood when she entered. He was both tall and heavy-set, with receding dark hair, and was dressed in an impeccable grey three-piece suit, with a navy blue handkerchief in his pocket. She suddenly felt underdressed.

“Ah, good morning,” he said. His voice was cultured, and his accent posh.

“Good morning,” she said, forcing cheer into her own voice, and giving a bright smile.

“Have a seat, Ms Sorin-- it  _is_ Sorin, yes? Not...”

“Yes,” she said quickly, before she started babbling defensively about  _infidelity_ and  _divorce_ and  _my mother's maiden name_ . She'd learned, the hard way, how to squash those answers. “Yes. Sophia Sorin.” There were three seats in the room: the one behind the desk, one against the wall, and one placed in the middle of the carpet in front of the desk. Called on the carpet, literally. She sat in front of the desk.

“Of course.” He waited until she'd sat down to seat himself again. “My name is Mycroft Holmes.”

“Hello,” she said, not knowing what else to say. She glanced over the surface of his desk. It was nearly bare, with a telephone, a stack of papers, and various pen-holders. No computer; in fact, no traces of electronics at all, except for the telephone. Even the lamp looked like it had come from a nineteenth-century organ. None of it indicated who he was, or what he did.

“You've never heard of me, of course,” he said. “Minor bureaucrats tend not to attract much attention. To come to the point, Ms Sorin, I'm in need of a personal assistant, and my contacts in your department informed me that your work is of exceptional calibre.”

He paused, as if expecting a response. She wasn't sure what to say, so instead she gave him another bland smile.

“The hours are long, but the pay is very good,” he continued.

“I've never worked as a personal assistant before.”

“I'm sure a woman of your talents would have no trouble picking it up very quickly. You'd have your own office and work to do there, but one of your primary responsibilities would be accompanying me on appointments.”

“Take the Tube often, then?” she asked.

“Mmm. I have a car and a driver.” He smiled. “What do you think? I can give you a formal job description, of course, but if you're not interested, there's no point in going on.”

She said the first thing that came to mind: “I think that minor bureaucrats have neither offices of this size, nor personal assistants, nor cars with drivers. So. Why am I here, really?”

There was a short silence where she tried to figure why she'd been so frank. Then he smiled, and she got the distinct feeling it was the first real smile she'd seen from him. It was distinctly... carnivorous. “Good,” he said. “If you hadn't--”

The door opened. She looked up, and there was the man from the reception room. He looked startled, then embarrassed-- Mr Holmes looked vaguely annoyed.

“I'm so sorry,” the man said. “Your schedule--”

“Yes, I'm aware. If those are the Ukrainian papers, give them here.”

The man put the stack of papers on the desk, then wiped his face with a handkerchief; he was sweaty, and looked like he'd been running. Mr Holmes leafed through them. “Hmm. Disappointing.” Mr Holmes looked up. “I'm forgetting my manners. Ms Sorin, this is--”

“Rufus Grier,” she said.

Silence. Both of them were staring at her, and she realized she'd made a mistake. “I beg your pardon,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

Mr Holmes's gaze was intense, all trace of smiling facade gone. He tilted his head. “How did you know that?”

Oh. They weren't staring at her because she'd made an ass out of herself. They were staring at her because she was  _right_ .

She cleared her throat. “When Ms Walters offered me a position with her department, she referenced the PremCo employment agency. The agency is a fake; the address is registered to a bakery, and most of the email addresses bounce back. I didn't know how Ms Walters got my CV. After I saw you in the canteen the first time--” she glanced at Rufus Grier-- “I realized there was probably a connection to what happened in that reception room. When you left the canteen the second time you went to the sixth floor, so I found the staff listings for those departments, and eliminated all the overtly feminine names, as well as the male names with pictures. I Googled the rest of the names, which eliminated three more people. Your handkerchief is monogrammed with an “R,” and the only man left on the list whose names begins with R is Rufus Grier.”

“When you passed me in the canteen, I could have sworn you didn't recognize me,” Rufus said.

She gave him her bland smile again. He looked disconcerted.

Mr Holmes looked... pleased. That, in itself, was disconcerting. “Your capacity for organizing information and following a logical chain of reasoning is promising. Well done, Ms Sorin. You are correct in several points.” He leaned back in his chair and frowned. “Mr Grier is temporarily taking over some of the functions of my personal assistant. While he has many talents, this is not one of them. He was on business for me when he was followed to the reception room and intercepted there; afterwards, he told me about a woman whose quick thinking under pressure had saved her life and the life of the secretary. I was intrigued, especially because it was obvious you were seeking employment. Your record was promising, so I had Ms Walters hire you as grounds for further evaluation. That department often serves as an unofficial recruitment center, with many who are doing locum work going on to find more permanent employment with another department.” He flipped through a stack of papers in front of him. “My apologies for the delay in contacting you. The brother of one of your partners at university is now the head of his local communist branch, and we had to make sure there was no connection.”

She blinked. It had been years since she'd even thought about that boyfriend. “I see,” she said, still trying to assimilate it all.

He closed the folder in front of him and stared at her levelly. “In the past I've drawn my personal assistants from the SAS or the police, but they tend to lack a certain... ability to think creatively. You, demonstrably, do not.”

“The SAS,” she repeated. “If you're looking for an assistant of that caliber, you'd best look elsewhere.”

“Oh, I don't think so.” He smiled again. “It's very much a civilian position. I'm not looking for a bodyguard. What I require is someone with discretion and intelligence. If you're amenable, I suggest an eight-week probationary period, able to be terminated by either of us. You've already cleared many of the necessary background and security checks, but this would allow ample time for the rest of them.”

“What if I decline?”

“You'll return to your original department. It's likely that someone of your talent would eventually find a permanent position, but not certain.”

“They'd keep me on, even though you asked them to hire me?”

“Ms Walters is satisfied with your work, is she not?”

Sophia studied him. “Mr Holmes, you haven't told me what you actually do.”

He frowned. “I did tell you, Ms Sorin. I'm a minor bureaucrat.” He tilted his head. “An accountant, of sorts. I handle a good deal of... information; you would be responsible for helping me receive, sort, and process it.”

Sophia glanced from him to Rufus Grier, who was still standing by his chair, also frowning. He'd been on business for Mr Holmes... and had nearly gotten her killed. “What happened to your last assistant?”

“She took a bullet meant for me and decided to find a less stressful line of work.”

“Is that part of the job description?”

“Heavens, no. I don't know what got into her. Perhaps she thought she was being...  _brave_ .” The tilt of Mr Holmes's head as he said this left her with no doubt as to what he thought of that particular adjective. 

“What about the assistant before that?”

“She's now attached to the Home Office.”

“And--”

“The assistant before her is now a Cambridge professor, and the one before her left to have a child and is now a high-level administrator in the WHO. I can furnish you with their contact information if you like. Your concern is understandable, but I assure you, none of my assistants have ever been seriously injured... in this line of work.”

She stared at him intently. Something told her that if she went home and looked him up on the Internet, she would find no more traces of him than she had of the truth behind the PremCo employment agency. Her usual method, gathering information, was useless here. That left the information she had already, and gut instinct. “What about getting innocent bystanders killed? Is that a part of the job, too?”

Mr Holmes looked pained. “As I said, Mr Grier's talents have... limitations. In a word: no.”

Sophy looked up at Mr Grier, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He shrugged philosophically. She looked away again, and considered the information she already had: that someone had nearly killed her when she'd been going about her business. She wasn't sure she'd ever get past the shock that had given her orderly life. All illusions of control had fallen away. If she was going to live in a world like that, she wanted some control back.

“What happens if I quit?” she asked after a moment.

Mr Holmes had watched her during her deliberations, as if he knew what she was thinking. “There would be a necessary level of surveillance for some time, but you would be allowed to go about your business. It would, however, be highly unfortunate if you found yourself working for another government in a similar capacity.”

“By 'highly unfortunate' do you mean lethal?”

He smiled. “I mean 'highly unfortunate.'”

“And what surveillance if I work for you?”

“That depends on the situation. You'll generally have a tail, though at certain pre-arranged times it may be possible to dispense with his or her presence. The outside of your flat will be monitored. I think you'll find that petty criminals will no longer be a problem. Nor,” he added, “getting caught up in someone else's crisis. I can't promise that you'll be completely safe, but I can assure you that anyone who actually gets through to you will be targeting you.”

She considered. That was... probably the best thing she was going to get, in an uncertain world. “I'd like to hear more specifics of what I'll actually be doing.”

Mr Holmes leaned over and opened a desk drawer. After a moment, he straightened up holding a slim book. “My previous assistant was fond of writing down all her appointments; she never went anywhere without this.” He thumbed through the pages. “2 October, 2007. Meeting with Canada re: Carney. Afternoon, coverage of PM visit to Iraq. 3 October, 2007. Meeting with daughter of Israeli ambassador. File maintenance. 4 October, 2007--” he frowned at the page. “Fiji cultural ministry. Files to airport for Bangladesh courier.” He closed it. “Not altogether outside your area of expertise.”

“All right,” she said after a moment. “I'll take the job.”

“Oh thank God,” Rufus said.

Mr Holmes raised one thin eyebrow, but didn't look at him. “Excellent. You'll start Monday. Your first assignment is to become an expert on the Wellivernian mining crisis. Rufus, please take her to fill out the necessary paperwork. Until Monday, Ms Sorin.”

“Monday,” she agreed, and followed the other man out of the room.

He looked at her with amusement when they were in the lift. “You do realize what you've gotten yourself into.”

“Probably not.”

His eyebrows went up. “At least you have the sense to recognize it.”

“How did you come to be filling in as his assistant? You're not assigned to this department.”

“I'd worked with him before. He had a high opinion of my intelligence. Unfortunately, our working styles don't precisely... mesh.”

“Oh?”

“I hope you're organized,” he said.

“Quite,” she assured him.

The paperwork was less tedious than she would have expected for a position attached to someone who met with ambassadors and prime ministers-- but then, if he'd been telling the truth, they already knew so much about her there wasn't much additional information she could contribute. “This proof of name change--” she began, frowning at the page.

“Already taken care of,” the records assistant assured her. “All you need to do is fill out this page, sign here and here, take these home, read them, sign this, and bring it back.”

“These” proved to be the official handbook for the accounting department, of which she was now technically a member. She stuffed the thick sheaf into her handbag, left the building, and returned to her old department. There she found Ms Walters, gave her a brief and non-detailed summary of what had happened, thanked her, said good-bye to Eve, retrieved her few personal belongings from her desk, and made sure her work and notes were in good order for whoever succeeded her. Then she went home and Googled “Wellivernian mining crisis.” None of the hits that resulted produced anything that made sense.  _Well, this will be fun._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every job comes with new employee orientation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to emerald_happy, my Britpicker and beta, and also to lastwordy-mcgee, my beta and skull.

 

An hour later she was at the public library, poring over the largest atlas she could find. There was nothing listed for Wellivernia, Wallivernia, Wallivarnia, or any variants; the only advice the reference librarian had been able to offer was that it might have been mis-transcribed from a non-Roman alphabet.

Maybe there was a way to come at it backwards. If this really was a crisis, then it might have international ramifications. Another trip to the reference desk produced the last week's worth of papers; she opened all the financial sections, and compared them.  _There_. Three companies whose stock had plummeted by an average of thirty-one percent in the last four days while the mineral market as a whole had climbed. She jotted down their names, and went home.

Back at her flat, she sat down with a cup of tea to investigate the three companies. The information she turned up on the Internet was overwhelming, so she made a list of each company's subsidiaries. Then she found every mine in which any of the subsidiaries had an interest. None of them were located in any place called Wellivernia. She loaded Google Earth and searched around each mine in a 45 km radius. Again, nothing.

She ran her hands through her hair in frustration, then stretched to ease the kink in her back and went to do a load of wash. Afterwards, she made another cup of tea and sat back down. If none of the companies had any connection to this mine that was supposedly having a crisis, then why had their stock prices all dropped?

It took her nearly two hours to find the connection. The only thing the three companies had in common was that, over the past three years, each of them had begun to report significantly increased profits from the division including wolframite and scheelite. Searching for “new mine” wolframite OR scheelite brought up several hits, and as she skimmed them, she found a recent news article about protests outside the site of a proposed mine in... Cumbria. Cumbria?

Plugging in the details from the article brought up the name of the mine, the company that owned it, and the history of the conflict. There wasn't much to discover about the company, though; their website was vague, and their name was absent from most news articles. Surprisingly absent, in fact. Skimming one article, she found a reference to the company's mysterious president... a Mr Walligyania. Her eyes narrowed.  _I see what you did there, Mr Holmes_ . That name opened up some more results: the man was of eastern European extraction, had emigrated years ago, and had run several companies successfully before buying a failing Scafell Co six years ago and turning it around. There wasn't much available about the protests themselves-- the scant coverage given by the local newspapers made it sound like a minor environmental matter, with a few people using bureaucracy to hold up much-needed progress. But then, why was it a crisis...?

Apparently the mine had been in development for the past four years, but it had been held up by red tape and, more recently, labor issues.  _But Cumbria is traditionally mine territory. Why would they have any shortage of workers?_ Nothing she could find was any more illuminating than one quote about “damned foreigners.” She frowned... there had been a vague reference in one Scafell Co press release about immigration. Was Walligyania trying to import workers from outside England?

She was convinced she'd absolutely run up against a brick wall in terms of information easily available on the Internet. Maybe she could find someone willing to speak to her off the record. She found the blogs or websites of several environmental societies in the region around the mine, but looking through the archives of the past four years, there was no coverage at all. That didn't make sense; from experience, she knew that environmentalists liked to get as much press coverage as possible for their causes. She picked a website with a phone number, and rang the office for the Cumbria Wilderness Area Protection Society.

“Yes, hello,” she said when someone picked up, “I'm looking for information on the new tungsten ore mine?”

A pause. “I'm sorry, we're not involved with that, you'll need to ring someone else. Have a nice day.” The call ended.

When she got approximately the same response from two more people, she knew something was up.  _Well. If I can't find anything over the Internet, nor on the phone_... There was an early train to Carlisle the next day. She hesitated before booking; money wasn't the issue, but... was this necessary, or was she making a fool out of herself?

_He said 'expert.' How else are you going to become an expert at something that nobody's talking about?_

She bought the ticket. If Mr Holmes was testing her, by giving her the wrong name, then she would do whatever she had to to demonstrate her competence.

 -

The early train was very early, and also nearly empty. She sipped her coffee, waiting for it to kick in as they glided through the darkness. The night before, she'd spent about four hours going from pub to pub in the part of east London where Bulgarian immigrants tended to settle, but she'd discovered nothing more illuminating than that Mr Walligyania was not well-liked, for reasons no one would discuss in front of her.

Whatever this man had done, it had been enough to intimidate both the Bulgarian immigrant community and the local environmentalists, but she didn't know why Mr Holmes had described the situation as a crisis. A better knowledge of what he actually did would have been helpful in understanding the situation's relevance to him; he'd described himself as a minor bureaucrat, and was in the accounting department. The first bit she didn't believe for a minute, but that didn't leave her any closer to finding out what he actually did. She'd looked him up on the Internet, but there hadn't been anything illuminating. A real shocker, that.

From Carlisle, she took the bus to Penrith, and walked to the motel she'd booked. The man at the front desk looked at her bank card, and then her ID, and frowned.

“A problem?” she asked.

“This came for you this morning.” He handed her a brown envelope.

Her eyebrows went up at that, but she waited until she was in her room, with the door shut and locked, to open it. It was a press card, from the British Association of Journalists, with her picture and her name. Along with the card was a piece of paper listing the privileges and responsibilities associated with a press card. Her name was typed on the front of the envelope, and there was no indication of where it had come from, except for a single line of type at the bottom of the piece of paper:  _Good start_.

_Well_. Telling Mr Grier that she didn't really know what she was getting herself into had been truer than she'd known at the time.

She shredded the paper and flushed the pieces while considering how to best use this unexpected advantage. Best to start in town, probably, and work her way up to going out to the mine, which was out of the way of the usual tourist spots.

She found a little restaurant for a late breakfast, and, posing as a student on holiday, asked the waitress leading questions about walking tours. This earned her a warning not to go too far to the northwest, “because the country isn't so pretty that way, what with the mine, and the owners tend to be rather tetchy about trespassers, you see. Territorial,” the woman added as she refilled Sophy's coffee.

“Territorial?” she repeated, opening her eyes wide and blinking. “What do they do? Surely the boundary lines are marked?”

“No, not well. Probably they'll just bark at you, but they've got no great reputation round here, that's for sure.”

“Just for scaring off tourists?”

“Not just, no. Last month some protesters got dogs set on them-- the mine claimed it was an accident, of course, and promised to make recompense for time lost from work, but they haven't, and now some of the people are hard up. The police looked the other way, of course. And I've heard-- just heard, mind--” she glanced over her shoulder. “Some journalists have bee having trouble, with some having their flats burgled and others losing their notes, and one's even disappeared, I've heard.”

“But haven't there been mines here for hundreds of years? Do I need to stay away from all of them?”

“You seem to know the area well,” the waitress said.

_Careful_. “Oh, well, my sister read history, and she wrote her thesis on the historical economics of Carlisle, or some such. I heard about it when she was home on hols. But from what she said, I thought mines were a mainstay of the economy?”

“None of the locals will work for Scafell any more, they say it's too dangerous. So the mine's been shut down for weeks, and they say the man who runs it, he's trying to bring miners in from Bulgaria. But even they don't want to stay. And then the environmentalists say the mine is contaminating the river. It's a knotty mess; best not to get too close to it. There are some lovely walks straight west, and you wouldn't risk encountering any vicious guards.”

Sophy thanked her, ate her food, and left a good tip. Then she wandered round the town and had variants of the same conversation with a grocer's clerk, a librarian, and a man in a pub, who was more voluble and vituperative than the rest. By mid-afternoon she'd established that no one in Penrith particularly liked Scafell Co, not even for the money they brought in, which was significant considering how long mining had been a mainstay in the region. However, no one seemed particularly reluctant to talk to her, either-- the old man in particular jumped at the chance to vent his criticisms. The only time anyone stopped talking suddenly was if she mentioned journalists, or anyone who could bring the conflict to national attention.

No one said anything that explained why Mr Holmes thought it was a crisis. It might quality for someone in the Labour Ministry, or maybe the Interior Ministry, but the accounting department? Stopping by one more pub, she posed as a visiting relative, and struck up a conversation that let her plant the suggestion that her aunt Gladys's best friend's sister had heard Scafell Co manipulated their books. This produced some general agreement, and a few murmurs of “wouldn't put it past them,” but nothing more specific.

Well, if Scafell Co only responded to provocations by protesters and journalists, she could manage that. The bus took her two kilometers towards the mine, and she walked the final kilometer. Rounding a bend in the road, she saw a chain-link fence posted with warning signs. Beyond the fence were several dark holes in the side of the hill and a scattering of small buildings. At the gate, a guard was standing, wearing a helmet and holding a large baton. Were those even legal? On pretense of sending a text, she took several pictures with her mobile, and uploaded them to her inbox. She looked round. Ahead, the road ran past the fence, but given the discoloration of the surface, she guessed that it turned to dirt not much farther on. Nothing much that way, then. Between her and the fence were a handful of people, standing round looking rather disconsolate, and holding signs that said things like “Stop land rape” and “No foreign strikebreakers!”

“Hello, excuse me,” she said loudly. “I was looking for Penrith Park, but I don't think, er, this is it. Where am I?”

“The Walligyania hell-hole,” said one of the protesters, a long-haired man about her age. “No parks round here.”

She blinked. “Hell-hole?”

“It's a mine,” an older woman said. “A tungsten mine. They're trying to rip the guts right out of the earth and poison the river while they do it.”

“Poison the river?”

The woman produced a pamphlet. It had clearly been printed in someone's home office; it was crooked, and the ink was streaky. The front was a blurry picture of a man in a suit, with the words STOP THE MINE overlaid. She scanned the inside: the local magistrate had approved an environmental plan for the mine that included waste deposition in a lake that the protesters claimed would leach to the nearby river. The protesters were making allegations that the mine's new operating plan was falsifying data and skirting environmental protection schemes and that other mines run by Scafell Co had sickened the local populations. There was also a reference to “imported foreign labor destroying our traditional way of life.”

She looked up. “This sounds just dreadful. Have you told anyone? Written about it? I'm sure the environmental protection groups would be all over this.”

Looks were exchanged. “Our website was hacked as soon as we tried to say anything about it,” the man said. “And none of the other groups will touch this with a barge pole. They learned, too.”

“That's really just awful... but, listen, can you give me directions to Penrith Park? I'm supposed to meet my friend, and I'm late. Only my mobile's not working somehow, and I don't think the directions Borislava gave me are very good...”

An angry murmur. “Is your friend Bulgarian?” demanded a second woman.

Sophy raised her eyebrows. “I don't  _think_ so, well, I've never asked her, I think she's Russian, but... why does it matter?”

“Because Walligyania's importing Bulgarian miners since none of our Cumbrian folk want to touch the place-- too hazardous for them, it is.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Can he do that? Or, I suppose Bulgaria's in the EU now, isn't it.”

“Oh, he can do it all right,” the second man said, “especially since he's got Immigration Services in his pocket.  _Someone_ is issuing all of them visas.”

She looked round. “Is the mine in operation now, then?”

“It's not running today. Hasn't been for thirty-six days. Can't get any workers.” A new voice-- a tall woman, looking smug.

“Why not?”

“First batch all ran off to London. Too hazardous for them, even. He's down there now, we think, trying to persuade them to come back.”

Sophy wondered if “too hazardous” referred only to the mine itself, or if the locals had provided a little friendly encouragement for the miners to leave. “What happens now, then?”

“He'll get someone in to work it, I'm afraid,” said the first woman, the one with faded ginger hair. “It's too profitable, isn't it? Tungsten prices are up like mad this quarter, and this is one of the only new mines in the world that isn't in China.”

She decided the psychological moment was ripe, pretended to send a text, and took out her notebook. “Listen, I'm a reporter. My editor would love a story like this-- I've put off my friend, why don't you start from the beginning?”

She wasn't sure if they were convinced by the convenience of her just happening to stumble by, but the first man and the second woman put down their signs and came closer to her. “It began about four years ago,” the woman, the one with the nose ring, started.

The guard, who had until now been motionless and silent, took a radio from his belt and raised it to his mouth. “Journalist out front,” he said, then resumed his posture as the protesters turned to look at him.

“Listen, don't let them intimidate you,” the man said, adjusting his glasses. “You're perfectly safe here. Now, four years ago, Walligyania came out here with a bunch of reports and plans, trying to convince the local council to waive the environmental protection regulations...”

About three minutes into the story, a man came out of one of the small buildings and through the gate, pulling it closed behind him. “Hello,” he said, smiling pleasantly and raising his voice to be heard over the protesters. The woman stopped talking, and everyone turned to look at him. “Are you the reporter, then?”

Sophy smiled. “Yes.”

“There's been a lot of misinformation floating around--” he just barely glanced at the protesters-- “about this mine. If you'd like to come in, I'd be happy to give you a statement.”

“Don't,” the woman with the nose ring said.

Sophy kept smiling. “Oh, I'm sure it will be fine. I'll get the rest of the story from you when I come out.”

The woman sighed, plucked Sophy's mobile from her fingers, and tapped at the keys. “That's my number. Ring me if you get into trouble, because the police won't come out  _here_.”

“Thanks,” Sophy said, giving her an extra-bright smile. She glanced at her mobile, adjusted something, and followed the man through the gate.

He led her into the building, through a blandly-furnished reception room-- she suppressed a shudder-- and into an equally bland office. The man gestured for her to have a seat, and then seated himself behind the massive desk. “You're a reporter, then?”

“Yes.”

“May I see your press card?”

She dug it out of her pocket and slid it across the desk. He picked it up, studied it, then deliberately leaned around the side of the desk and put it through the shredder. Then he looked up and regarded her with a self-satisfied smile. “Now, Ms Sorin...”

“Oh, thank God,” she said.

“Sorry?”

“Well, that photo was hideous, wasn't it? I kept asking Nick to let me have a proper one, but he kept saying no. Now that that thing is destroyed he'll have to change his mind.”

The man's tongue flicked out and smoothed over his lips. “Ms Sorin,” he began. “You do realize, I hope, that I've just destroyed your press card.”

“Well, I watched you, didn't I?” She thought the time was right for a short giggle.

“And that puts you in a rather precarious position.”

“Oh, I wasn't actually planning to do any reporting on my holiday, you know. Just walking about. This one just fell right into my lap! You said something about a statement?”

He cleared his throat. “There will be no statement.”

“Oh.” She frowned, then brightened up again. “Sometimes that goes over just as well, you know-- with a statement you have a chance to wrap the situation up in big words, but when there's no statement that looks rather shifty. Plays well. Readers like the underdog versus the big, faceless, silent corporation, you know.” She took out her notebook and pretended to scribble a few words. “What was your name again?”

His frown deepened. “I hadn't given it to you.”

“Oh! Well?” She waited, pen poised over the page.

“Ms Sorin, I am not giving you my name, or a statement, or anything else.”

She cocked her head. “Then why am I here?”

“Because Scafell Co does not take kindly to negative publicity, Ms Sorin.”

“'... negative... publicity,'” she repeated, tongue between her teeth, as she wrote. She looked up. “Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?”

“Ms Sorin,” he said, “stop writing.”

Obediently, she put her pen down and smiled, blinking a few times.

“You will not be writing a story about the mine. You will not be talking to the protesters outside. You will not be taking any more notes. You will leave this town, go about your business, and forget this ever happened. If you are at all disinclined to cooperate, I will be calling the police on you and bringing charges of trespassing, since you have no press card and nothing to prove that you are a journalist.” He folded his hands and leaned over the desk. “And you will be leaving your notebook here.”

She cocked her head. “I really don't think I can, though, I was taking notes at my cousin's bridal party fitting and it's got all the girls' measurements in it, you know, so we could comparison shop to get the best price-- and anyway, I don't think it would be proper to leave it with you, you're not exactly family, are you?” She giggled. “I can just imagine Emily, 'Oh my god, Sophy, you let some bloke know how big my arse is--'”

“Ms Sorin!” the man snapped. “Shut up, you stupid bint!”

She shut up. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses out of the way. Then he pushed a button on the phone. “Do you have a moment, sir? There's a reporter.” The reply was inaudible, but when he raised his head again, he was smiling smugly.

“There's no need to be in a strop about it,” she said sulkily. “ _You_ invited _me_ in. I don't know why, if you were going to change your mind two minutes later. Makes you a bit of a tease, doesn't it?”

He ignored her, which seemed a bad sign. “So,” she said brightly, looking round the office, “big operation here?” When he continued to ignore her, she began to scribble furiously in her notebook.

A moment later, the door opened. She twisted round in her seat to see another man enter. The man who had invited her in, the taller one, immediately gave up his seat. The shorter man took it, and the other one hovered at his shoulder. “You,” the newcomer said. His voice had a faint accent, and she guessed this was Mr Walligyania. “What is your name?”

“Sophia Sorin, sir.” She smiled cheerfully at him.

He didn't smile back; he looked, in fact, irritated. “Sophia Sorin. You will hand over all the notes you have taken and let us erase the contents of your mobile. You will then leave these premises and this town and ignore any and all news about this mine. Alternatively, you will find your career as a journalist at an end and yourself blacklisted from most of the jobs you would wish to consider in the future. If you are particularly tenacious, you will find yourself the center of a public scandal that will destroy your life and quite possibly drive you to suicide.” He folded his hands and smiled thinly at her. “Which will it be? I really don't care.”

She studied him, trying not to drop her vacant expression. He meant, she believed, every word; it wasn't just a bluff. For future reference, she filed away the notion that evil people came in every appearance, including the most ordinary. “I think that if you had that much pull in the labor market, you wouldn't have to be importing miners from Bulgaria.” She smiled apologetically.

“You should have chosen the other option,” he said, and pushed a button on the phone. “Jones. An escort in Burton's office, now.”

She felt her heart rate speed up, and forced herself back into feigned ignorance. “You're not exactly making it easy on yourself, are you? I mean, the story will get out eventually, and the more you threaten me the worse it'll be.”

“You're hardly the first young, idealistic journalist to come through,” Mr Walligyania. “We've had our share of seasoned journalists as well, of course. Most of them chose to back off on the story, though a few of them have been ruined. Under the shame of the scandal, one died just last month... mysteriously.”

“Possibly,” she said thoughtfully, listening carefully for the footsteps behind her. “Certainly not the first journalist to come through. Possibly the first one to stream the audio live onto the Web, though.” She smiled apologetically, holding up her mobile but keeping it well out of the reach of the two men.

The door behind her opened, but the footsteps stopped.

“My editor is listening in,” she continued, “and I texted him the address before I came. So, just in case, for example, there happens to be another big man with a baton standing right behind me, I'd really advise against hurting me.” She smiled again, but her heart was hammering in her chest. One exposure to the adrenaline rush of danger did not, apparently, work as a vaccine.

“Jones,” Mr Walligyania said through clenched teeth, “escort this individual off the premises. You chose poorly, Ms Sorin.”

“Time will tell, won't it?” She thrust her mobile deep into her pocket and clutched her handbag tightly as someone grabbed her upper arm and propelled her out of the office, through the hallways, across the yard, and to the gate. It clanged loudly behind her.

The protesters surrounded her immediately, and shepherded her away from the fence. “Are you all right?” the woman with ginger hair demanded.

“Did they threaten you?”

“Did they hurt you?”

“I'm perfectly all right,” she said. “I don't think they were particularly pleased to see me, but I've got all my notes and everything.” She held up her notebook as proof and to remind them that she'd been interviewing them, and led them a little farther away from the gate. “When I was in town, someone mentioned dogs getting set on her sister. Was that here?” At their angry murmurs of assent, she asked, “What happened?”

Twenty-two minutes of furious scribbling later, she had the most in-depth story yet about the history of the mine, Scafell Co's Cumbria operations, the protests, the alleged environmental damage, and the work stoppage. She also had several mobile numbers and email addresses if she needed any more information. She took a picture of them, thanked them all, and wished them luck; then she took pictures of her notes, and made sure all the audio and all the pictures were backed up on the Web. Then she started back the way she'd come.

After about five minutes, she heard a vehicle approaching rapidly. A lorry sped round the curve, driving erratically and weaving round the wrong side of the road. Either it was being driven by a drunk American, or someone was deliberately trying to take up as much road as possible. It swerved toward her and then away, and she was glad she was walking on the other side of a meter-wide ditch. What if someone in the lorry had a gun? But that would be too obvious, surely they could never make that look like an accident. All the same, she was very relieved when the bus came.

When she walked into the motel, the desk clerk hailed her: “Miss,” he said gruffly. He picked something up and slung it over the desk; she was startled to recognize her overnight case. “You've been checked out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You've been checked out,” he repeated.

“I want to talk to a manager.”

“The manager's busy.”

“Then I want back in my room to make sure you didn't miss anything.”

Reluctantly, he handed over a key, warning her that she'd better be out in ten minutes. Once behind the locked door, she opened her bag and made sure everything was still there. It was, but someone had obviously gone through it. Everything was backed up on the Internet anyway, but she didn't want them seeing what she'd written, so she tore the relevant pages out of her notebook, folded them, and tucked them into her bra. Then she zipped her jacket over her blouse, picked up her overnight case, and left the motel.

Once she found a new motel with a national chain, one she hoped would he less susceptible to intimidation, she checked in, left her bag there, and made the rounds of the pubs again, curious to see how far Scafell Co's resentment of her had spread. No one seemed to have heard anything about it, and while everyone was willing to grouse about the company, no one said anything she hadn't heard before. She was beginning to suspect that the answer to the crisis question lay back in London, not in Cumbria. There was one more thing she wanted to do, though, and she needed daylight for it, so she went back to the motel to make an early night of it. Before she went to bed, she locked and bolted the door, wedged a chair under the handle, and lined the window sill with coins. As she tried to sleep, she wondered if accepting Mr Holmes's job offer had really been the best way to cope with the trauma.  _This job is really not going to reduce my stress levels. Why did I think accepting it was a good response to danger, to losing the illusion of security?_ She rolled over, keeping one hand one the bundle of notes under her pillow.  _Why the hell didn't I just go to the bloody therapist?_

In the morning, she bought a local guidebook, which had advice on pleasant hikes in the area. She found a circuitous route that would skirt the front of the mine, and two and a half hours of steady walking later, was looking down on the back from an adjacent hill. It was rather anti-climatic: a hole in the ground big enough for a lorry, a few other holes in the side of the hill, two sheds, and a pond of something dark that she guessed was waste slurry. There was also some heavy machinery scattered about the hillside, but it was all still. No sign of what made the mine so dangerous; she wouldn't be able to discover that without somehow getting inside, but she wasn't that stupid. If her new boss wanted someone without any self-preservation skills whatsoever, he'd have to look elsewhere.

She took pictures from several angles, returned to the town, and caught the bus to Carlisle. Back in her flat several hours later, she downloaded the preliminary findings of the Environment Agency's latest report on regional water quality. The data had been acquired only four months ago, and it gave her a good idea of the sorts of chemicals that Scafell Co might be putting in the waterways. Over several cups of tea, she read everything she could find on the tungsten market, still trying to unearth the exact nature of the “crisis.” There were no hints, however, that the market was in any kind of trouble; several new mines had opened in China in the past year, and supplies were growing rather than dwindling.

Finally she admitted defeat, and got ready to sleep. It took her a long time to drop off; her head was filled with pictures of men with rifles and shock batons. Finally, after she put a stack of empty can in front of the door, and made sure the knife was in its customary place in her bedside table, she was able to sleep.

 -

Monday morning found her in front of Mr Holmes's office door, fiddling with the hem of her blazer. She still didn't have an answer; nothing had materialized in the middle of the night. She sighed, gave her sleeves one last nervous twitch, and knocked firmly. “Come in,” her boss called.

He was sitting at his desk, frowning over some papers, and gestured to the chair in front of the desk. “And how were your travels?” he asked finally, looking up with a smile. Mycroft Holmes, she was beginning to realize, smiled a lot. She wasn't sure whether he ever meant it.

“Er...” she swallowed, and considered possible answers. “Illuminating, sir.”

“And the assignment?”

She shook her head. “I don't know why the situation in Cumbria constitutes a crisis.”

He remained silent, scrutinizing her. The silence invited her to fill it, but she planned her words carefully, resisting the urge to babble nervously. “Three new discoveries in the past year mean worldwide tunsgten supplies are not in danger of running out. Prices are not particularly high, and while the Scafell mine is the only active one in the United Kingdom, there's little danger to the supply chain.” She put her hands on her knees to keep herself from fidgeting. “The papers have mentioned new mineral trade agreements with China, for the past several months, but nothing has come to fruition. China may want assurance that we'll continue to import tungsten from them-- or that we won't unload on their market. But as long as the mine remains closed, I'm afraid I don't see the connection.”

Another smile. “Remarkably close.. As it happens, the salient negotiations are with Kyrgyzstan--”

Her eyebrows went up.

“-- with Kyrgyzstan,” Mr Holmes repeated. “They are willing to explore the possibility of housing certain British... assets--”

 _Spy base against China?_

“-- but one of their demands is an assurance that we can supply them with tungsten if they choose to eschew China's market.”

She thought fast. Her knowledge of Central Asia was poor-- she wasn't sure she could even place all the countries correctly on a map. “Why Kyrgyzstan, and not... Kazakhstan or Tajikistan?”

“Kazakhstan is attempting a more... judicious approach to its relations with China. Tajikistan is, for a number of reasons, less than ideal for this project.”

She nodded once. “So it is in fact in the government's best interests for the mine to proceed.”

“From... a certain point of view,” he agreed, and she wondered what the other point of view was. “However, quite apart from the humanitarian aspect, it is not practicable to allow such a matter of national security to rest on one man's ability to coerce an immigrant population.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, Mr Walligyania has steadfastedly resisted any and all offers to buy out his share of the mine.”

“And nationalising it would draw too much attention to the issue?” she guessed.

“Among other problems, not the least of which is the political capital to pass such a measure, yes.” He eyed her. “What would you recommend?”

Sophy considered carefully. “Presumably it would take less political capital to pass... er, mine safety reform measures, yes? And enforcing them would be, well, quieter. If the mines were made safe enough to work, the potential labor pool would increase, and wouldn't be dependent on Bulgarian immigrants.”

“Hmm.” She couldn't determine anything from his facial expression. “What sort of information did you gather in Penrith?”

“I talked to a number of residents and made notes of the conversations, I took rather distant pictures of the mine, recorded an interview with several protesters outside the mine, and recorded one conversation with Mr Burton and Mr Walligyania.”

One thin eyebrow arched delicately. “ _Did_ you,” he said softly. “Most interesting. Might I be permitted to hear it?”

“Yes. It's on my email account.”

He opened a drawer, took out a very thin, sleek laptop that seemed out of keeping with the old-fashioned furnishings of the room-- maybe that's why it was in the drawer-- and carefully passed it across the desk. It was  _very_ fast, she discovered as she opened her email. Either Mr Holmes didn't use it much, however, or all the documents, bookmarks and settings were hidden away.

She downloaded the audio file and the photos, signed out of her email, and handed back the laptop. Mr Holmes frowned at it, seemingly having trouble, and finally started playing the audio. He put the computer on the desk and listened, face expressionless. It was hard for her to be equally expressionless; she sounded even more breathless and ditzier than she'd remembered at the time.

The recording ended. He folded his hands. “Fascinating.”

She wasn't sure what he heard that was valuable or interesting, but it was good to know that her time had been productive, even if she hadn't found out what he'd assigned her to. “Sir?” she asked after a moment.

“Mmm?” His eyebrows rose briefly; he was still staring somewhere past her head.

“Assuming, as a minor bureaucrat--” at this, he turned to look at her, and raised one eyebrow again-- “you have the capacity to, er, address the crisis...?”

He smiled thinly. “You want to know how I'm going to do it?”

“Well... yes.”

“Quite.” He closed the laptop. “I'll simply have to be... persuasive, I suppose.” He smiled, and she was reminded of a cold-blooded carnivore. “On a regular day, I would ask you to bring the visitors up, but I'm afraid you might get lost in the building.” Before she could answer, he pushed a button on the phone-- the normal one, not the red rotary. “Ms Finchon, would you please send the gentlemen from Scafell Co up.”

An incoherent reply.

“And do send an escort to make sure they get here. Thank you.” He released the button.

Sophy looked round the office. “Shall I get another chair?”

“No.”

She blinked.

“But if you'd wait next door, until I call you, that would be ideal. Quickly.”

Next door was an empty office; suddenly there was the buzz of speakers, and she heard Mr Holmes's voice. “Ah,” he said. “MrWalligyania. And Mr Burton. How... pleasant.”

“Mr Holmes, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Please explain,” Mr Walligyania said, sounding irritated, “why it was imperative for us to travel to London this morning. It's significantly disrupted my plans, and I'm not at all familiar with the new permit your secretary mentioned. In fact, I've never heard of it.”

“I'm afraid this isn't about the permit,” Mr Holmes said. “Do be seated. Now, on the desk in that room-- no, not you,” he said, and she realized he must be talking to her-- “is a binder. Please bring it in here.”

When she opened the door, the two men facing Mr Holmes looked up. Mr Burton looked startled; Mr Walligynia, seated, narrowed his eyes. “I believe you've met my assistant, Ms Sorin,” Mr Holmes continued as she placed the binder in front of him, then took the seat by the window.

As Mr Walligyania continued to glare at her, she had to repress the urge to shiver. It took considerably more willpower than it should have to return his stare evenly, and suddenly she was angry with his attempt to intimidate her. She gave them both a bland smile. “Hello.”

“You have,” Mr Holmes said, drawing their attention back to him, “avoided twelve counts of reckless endangerment, ten counts of fraud, five counts of coercion, and--” he turned the page-- “four counts of corruption, by a combination of lies, threats, and bribery.”

Mr Walligyania, who had looked startled, now sneered. “I suppose you are trying to take out your cut?”

“Your astuteness,” Mr Holmes murmured, “is appreciated.”

Mr Walligyania laughed. “I warn you, Mr Holmes, as you may have guessed, I'm more in the business of making threats than taking them well.”

“Really? How tiresome.” Mr Holmes flipped through the folder. “This is enough evidence to convict you in any court... if I should let matters come to a trial, of course.” He looked up suddenly, and frowned; she had the sudden image of a teacher reprimanding a naughty pupil. “You certainly haven't covered your tracks very well. And then there's this--” he reached over and pressed a button on the laptop, and Mr Walligynia's voice came out, recounting his history of threatening journalists.

“What do you want?” Mr Walligyania asked, looking less confident. “ _If_ I were to believe that you have the evidence that you say you have.”

“I want, as you say, my 'cut.' Namely, your share in Scafell Co.”

“No,” Mr Walligyania said immediately.

Mr Holmes tilted his head. “I suppose the option of letting matters come to a trial does give you the advantage of retaining control that much longer before the inevitable prison term, but given your consistent labor problems, which are likely to persist, I'm afraid I don't see the... point.”

Mr Burton shifted on his feet, looking increasingly uncomfortable and out of place.

“I've taken my chances in court before. And won.”

Mr Holmes smiled. “Quite so, with one minor difference. I wasn't gathering evidence then.” He turned back to the folder and began to flip through it. “A May 13th conversation with the undersecretary of the Interior... a phone call, July 5th-- very clumsy, Mr Walligyania, you should never make threats in public places-- your bank statement from three days later, the hospital report from the miner injured on September  1st-- the real report, not the one you bribed an orderly to replace in his file-- the transcript of a closed-door meeting with the environmental agency on September 17th , a--”

“All right!” Mr Walligyania said. “Your point stands.” He looked considerably more agitated now, and wiped a hand over his brow. “If I cede control of Scafell Co to you--”

“To my agent,” Mr Holmes said.

“You'll, ah... make that go away?”

“Oh, no.”

Mr Walligyania frowned angrily. “Then what the hell is the point of the offer?”

Mr Holmes folded his hands. “To give you a choice,” he said, “between exposure, trial, and public disgrace, and quietly retiring from the field. Should you accept my offer, you will not be brought to trial. Nor will I destroy the evidence against you. I'm sure you're familiar with the principle of insurance.”

Mr Walligyania licked his lips. “Who the hell are you? You're certainly not the permitting authority.”

Mr Holmes smiled. “Just a minor bureaucrat.”

Sophy began to suspect that Mr Walligyania was going to fold-- and, after a few more minutes of blustering and bickering, he did. Mr Holmes had him sign a few sheets of paper, promised that someone would be in touch with further instructions, and rang for the men to be escorted out. The men who left the office looked a lot more defeated than the men who had entered it.

“What a tiresome little man,” Mr Holmes sighed. Then he opened a drawer and took out several brown envelopes. “These are for you to deliver, Ms Sorin. Ms Finchon will have rung the driver.” He looked up. “A question?”

She hesitated. “If he's immune from prosecution, won't he just take the money from Scafell Corp and do something else unsavory?”

“No.” He stacked the envelopes and handed them to her.

“What are these, sir?”

“Evidence.”

She blinked.

“Not against Mr Walligyania, of course, I'm a... man of my word. His compatriots in the government, however, brought down by their own  greed, are another matter entirely. Once the courts are through with them, no politician with any sense-- well, that lets out nearly all of them, doesn't it? No politician with any self-preservation will want anything to do with Mr Walligyania.” He tilted his head. “He may even be assassinated,” he mused.

“Assassinated?” she repeated.

“By an angry former business partner, yes.” Mr Holmes looked up, and saw her face. “Do you think that's unduly harsh? How many times did he try to kill you, when you were in Penrith?”

She remembered the lorry, and closed her mouth firmly on further comment.

Mr Holmes handed her a piece of paper with an address and directions inside a building. “Ms Finchon is down the hall and around the corner, the second door on the left. She will tell you where to meet the driver. Return here when you are done.”

Ms Finchon gave her directions to one of the building's carports. In the lift, Sophy plugged the address Mr Holmes had given her into her mobile. When the map spit out an answer, she felt lightheaded.  _Whitehall_ , she thought.  _It's the first day of my job and my boss has sent me to Whitehall. Is he mad, or am I? Possibly both?_

Her feeling of unreality grew when she came out of the door and found a black car with tinted windows waiting. The front door opened, and a burly man in a suit got out. “Ms Sorin?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He extended his hand. “Michael Parson. I'm Mr Holmes's driver.”

“Hello.” She shook his hand and looked him over. She wondered if the combination of his build, short hair, and something about the way he held himself was what people meant when they said someone “screamed SAS.”

“Delivery to Whitehall?”

“Er... yes.”

He grinned at her. “Don't worry. Routine delivery, they won't eat you.”

She found herself smiling back. He opened the back door for her and she slid inside. Traffic was relatively light, and she watched as they traveled a part of London she rarely visited. Michael stopped the car, made disapproving noises when she reached for the door handle, and got out to let her out. He gave her another encouraging smile, and she straightened her blazer and went inside.

It was very anti-climactic. At the front door, she had to show an official ID. Then she followed the directions Mr Holmes had given her, up four floors on the lift, through a series of corridors, and into a reception room. “Is this Ms Sayid's office?” she asked the secretary.

“Yes.”

She gave the file folders to him, and that was that. Downstairs, Michael was waiting, and drove her back to the building with the accounting department.

“Does Mr Holmes have things hand-delivered often, then?” she asked when he let her out.

“When it's important. Which it usually is.”

She could see the wisdom of that; if a man like Mr Walligyania could evade so many charges for so long, surely he could make an inconveniently high number of copies of evidence disappear in transit. She thanked Michael, and went back to Mr Holmes's office.

“No problems, I trust?” Mr Holmes asked without looking up from his work.

“No, sir.”

“Excellent.” She waited as he-- was he using a  _fountain pen?_ Apparently he was-- finished writing and put everything away. “Your office is just next door.” He gestured for her to precede him, in the opposite direction from the room in which she'd waited that morning.

It was smaller-- significantly smaller, which made sense, as his office was really palatially large for central London. There was a desk that looked out on the street, a sleek monitor, a tower concealed in a cabinet, a coat rack, and an empty bookshelf. “You'll find a copy of the employee handbook in the drawer,” Mr Holmes said, “but I believe my last assistant took everything else with her.” He bent over the windowsill, and frowned. “MI-6 never learns, do they?”

She blinked. “Sorry, sir?”

He was gazing at his fingertip in the light. “Lilies.”

She opened her mouth, closed it again, and waited.

“The last occupant of this room kept lilies on the windowsill. She claimed they 'purified the air.' Yet there's no lily pollen on this sill.”

Sophy supposed that suggesting the cleaners was right out.

“Ah, well. I'll have a word. I don't think I'll be needing you for anything else this afternoon, Ms Sorin, so feel free to wander about the building and familiarize yourself with it.”

A word... with MI-6. She shook her head. “Sir?”

He stopped at the door, and turned.

“When you gave me this assignment, you called it the  _Wellivernian_ mining crisis.”

“Did I?” He looked puzzled. “I must have been reading from a poorly transcribed document.”

If Mr Holmes ever worked from a poorly transcribed anything, she would eat her coat. When he closed the door behind him, she sat down, and contemplated what she'd gotten herself into. It was getting to be a familiar exercise.


End file.
